


A Gentleman's Agreement

by pasiphile



Category: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles - Kim Newman, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for prompt: "victorian au mormor smut- how would /you/ write hounds of the dubervilles? and bonus points for Seb bottoming"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentleman's Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for homophobia, sort-of D/s overtones,and historical incorrectness (if you are a historian with knowledge of late 19th century London please don’t kill me.)
> 
> Inspired by Michael Kurland’s Empress of India, that scene in Hound of the d’Urbervilles, and that one -probably false- quote going around about how Doyle initially intended Moran to be Moriarty’s bit on the side.

He missed the sun.

London, these days, was stinking, and loud, and  _busy_ , all the roadworks, too many people stuffed into a too small space. But he could have coped with all that easily enough, if it hadn’t been for the smog.

Air pollution, Moriarty had explained to him, from all the new industries popping up everywhere. Frankly he still didn’t quite understand how it worked, what the smoke from the chimneys had to do with the air outside – after all, when he smoked a cigar it didn’t linger for hours afterwards either, did it?

He flexed his hands. Already his tan was starting to fade, turning him back into the pale milk-sop he’d been when he had first left good old Blighty. A milk-sop with scars, though. A milk-sop who could hit a fly at thirty paces with a single bullet.

He wasn’t the same man he'd been at twenty, that much was certain.

He stepped out of the Bagatelle, pockets a considerable amount heavier than they had been when he got in. Moriarty wouldn’t approve, of course –  _keep inconspicuous, Moran, that’s the heart of it_  - but he needed to find his thrills  _somewhere_. Molly houses weren’t quite to his tastes, and neither were the tarts in Whitechapel; they were good to take the edge off when his needs ran high, but very far from satisfying.

He knew what he wanted. Wanted with a need even stronger than his need for the thrill of the gaming table, the triumph of a successful long-distance shot. But one had to remain realistic. Wanting things one couldn’t possibly get only led to trouble, and not the entertaining kind.

An urchin bumped into him. He swatted at him but the lad dodged and gave him a rather affronted expression. “The Professor wants to see ya,” he said, holding out his hand for a coin, the impertinent little devil.

Moran grabbed the urchin’s dirty shirt and pulled him into the alley. The child’s eyes went wide with panic and he started to struggle. Like cats, these boys were.

But he knew how to deal with cats.

“Look at me,” he snapped. “Remember my face, lad. And spread the word. Do  _not_ try to hoodwink me, or you’ll end up in the Thames. Understood?”

“I wasn’t – ”

“If you work for the Professor he paid you in advance. You were trying to get double pay, don’t  _lie_.”

The boy nodded, gone pale. Moran dropped him, already bored with him. “Tell your little friends as well, will you? I’m tired of threatening mice.”

The lad – appropriately enough – squeaked and scuttled away as soon as his skinny little legs could carry him.

Moran swung his cane and went on his way to Moriarty’s place.

***

Moriarty’s house was, like everything else about the man, outwardly respectable but hiding a great deal of interesting things beneath its unremarkable exterior.

It looked like the place a bachelor of some means would own, with a housekeeper and a butler. The average bachelor-of-some-means however would not be likely to employ a butler who once, in a previous life, had been one of London’s most feared cutthroats. And he still wasn’t quite sure what the dear housekeeper’s past was, but he’d stopped underestimating her abilities after he’d accidentally sneaked up on her and she had pulled a five-inch knife from her skirts and put it against his throat in the blink of an eye.

The door opened and the butler treated him to a chilly, formal stare. Moriarty called him  _Smith_ , although Moran would bet the entire current content of his pockets that wasn’t his birth name.

“I was summoned, I believe?” Moran said, with a cheerful grin.

Smith stepped aside, ushering him in in the most stoic of ways. Not a man of many words. Or any words at all, matter of fact.

“Thank you,” Moran said. “Where is the esteemed gentleman?”

Smith pointed to the stairs. Moran gave him a nod along with his hat, coat and stick, and trotted up to the first floor and Moriarty’s study.

Which was, surprisingly, empty. He took another look around – it wouln't be the first time Moriarty hid himself only to jump out at him unexpected in order to test some madcap theory – but no, he definitely wasn’t here.

Moran turned back to the landing and opened the next door, rather more carefully. It was one of Moriarty’s  _experimenting_ rooms, and he’d been warned about those. Apparently they contained contraptions ready to explode at the merest of disturbances.

But this room as well was empty as well. He padded over the Persian carpet to the final door. Moriarty’s bedroom, but… Surely he wouldn’t?

He knocked.

“Enter,” Moriarty’s eternally dry voice replied.

Moran stepped inside, feeling distinctly out of depth. Moriarty was standing at his window, in his shirtsleeves, looking as calm and composed as he always did. His back to Moran.

Moran shifted his weight onto his other foot. Moriarty turned around and gave him one quick, assessing look.

“I see Lady Fortune has been on your side again,” he said.

Moran blinked again. Six months now he’d been in Moriarty’s employ, but he still wasn’t quite used to the way Moriarty could tell entire lifestories without anything but a hint of dust, a crease in a sleeve, a lingering smile.

Moran shrugged. “She often is.”

“So I’ve noticed. Close the door.”

He did. It made the sound in the room strange, as if all sounds outside were muted.

He turned back to Moriarty and cleared his throat. “Your urchins are getting a little too enterprising.”

“One of them asked for pay, I suppose?” Moriarty asked, still not looking at him. “What did you do?”

“Told him not to ask. In a not very friendly manner. And to pass the message to the other little monkeys.”

“The word is already spreading, Colonel. I doubt you’ll have to deal with much impertinence in the future.”

“Well, good,” he said, still watching Moriarty’s back. There was something very off-kilter about all this. Felt a bit like being called to the Headmaster’s office in Eton, except then at least he’d always had some idea about what he’d done wrong.

Besides, Moriarty didn’t seem especially peeved, either. Just… thoughtful.

“I was reminded of my own fallibility today,” Moriarty informed him.

“You were?” Moran asked, utterly baffled. As far as he knew, Moriarty simply  _was_ infallible. And as to why he chose to share this with him…

Moriarty looked out of the window, frowning slightly. “There are in this city many… secret societies, I suppose one could call them. Communities with their own codes, rules. Worlds of their own.” He gave Moran a quick, fleeting look. “Few are as fascinating as the one of men who, shall we say, prefer to company of other men to that of women.”

“There’s a word for those kind of men,” Moran said, trying to sound calm. His hands were sweating, though, clamped tight behind his back.

“Not a word you would readily associate with yourself, I believe.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Moriarty simply raised an eyebrow, waiting calmly for a reply.

Moran glared at him. “I’m insulted, sir,” he said, stiffly, “that you believe you have to resort to blackmail to keep my loyalty. I could – ”

 _I could not betray you if I wanted to_ , the thought crossed his mind. Which sounded like something a young swain would tell a lass to get her skirts up, but there was truth in it, nevertheless.

“You misunderstand my intention,” Moriarty said.

“Do I?” he snapped. “Then be clearer.”

Moriarty turned and gave Moran his full attention – something he could have done without, to be honest. Moriarty’s full attention reminded him of nothing so much as the summer sun in Karachi – blinding, searing, far too intense to bear with any semblance of comfort.

 “Very well. I shall be as clear as I can.” He looked at the ceiling for a few moments, apparently gathering his thoughts. Moran watched him, full of trepidation.

“I had my eye on you from the first time I saw you in the Bagatelle,” Moriarty began. “You were… unusual, in more than one respect. And I confess my initial intentions were more  _selfish_ than anything else. But after some enquiries I came into contact with a Madam Susan, who told me you were a regular client of hers. So I presumed I had misjudged. Besides, by then it had become clear to me you could be of greater use to me as a second-in-command than as a …”

“As a what?” Moran asked, throat dry.

Moriarty merely smiled. “So you can imagine my surprise when in the course of my latest project I came across an establishment in Soho, and quite by coincidence I found your name on the clients’ register. Or do you deny it?”

He resisted the urge to look away. “No, sir, I do not,” he said, chilly. He might have played the fool to other people, but to Moriarty? The man didn’t have any morals to speak of, as far as Moran knew, so the idea that  _this_ was something he’d take exception to was frankly preposterous.

“Some men prefer the company of women, some of men,” Moran continued. “I prefer neither, or both, depending on how you want to interpret it. And I don’t see, Professor,” his tone grew harsher, “why you feel the need to bring this up now. Unless you have extortion in mind, which you assure me you don’t. So if you’ll excuse me…” He turned to leave.

“Moran.”

He stopped.

“Turn around.”

He turned around.

“You’re not going to ask?” Moriarty asked, with a mocking, cruel smile. “What my first thoughts were when I saw you?”

“Well?” he said brusquely.

“I was entertaining thoughts of how you would look in my bed.”

Moran felt his face flush. Moriarty was mocking him, wasn’t he? Somehow he had found out about Moran’s idle fantasies, about the his idiotic childish  _need_  that had been haunting him since he first met the man, and he had decided to make a joke out of it.

He took a step forward in anger, quite ready to attack Moriarty, to mar that composed pale face with a bruise, to break that straight aristocratic nose.

But then something – something almost too quick to follow – happened. One moment he was standing in the middle of the room, the next he was pressed against the wall, with Moriarty’s arm hard against his throat, his wrists pinned against his chest. He gasped in shock, surprise; who would have known the Professor could be so quick, so  _vicious_  a fighter?

Moriarty took Moran’s chin and tilted it up. “You think I’m in jest,” Moriarty said, still as cool as ever. “Not a surprise: you’re a suspicious man, both by nature as from experience. But I can assure you I am utterly serious.”

“You want to bed me,” Moran said. Even the mere mention of it sent a shiver down his spine.

“Yes. Unless you’re unwilling.”

He looked at Moriarty’s grey, empty eyes. He didn’t look like a man in the throes of passion. In fact, he’d seen that look only when the Professor was in his planning stages – he looked keen, concentrated, focused.

It was a strangely attractive sight.

“I’m willing,” Moran said, hoarsely.

Moriarty gave him one of his rare smiles. “Excellent.” He stepped back again.

Moran leaned away from the wall and straightened his clothes. Moriarty didn’t say anything else.

Perhaps that had been his game, after all. To see if Moran would be so desperate as to give in to him, and then to step back and mock him for it. It would be the kind of the thing he would enjoy, using men’s deepest, most intimate desire against them.

“You may undress,” Moriarty said.

Relief flooded him – not a game after all, thank God. Although… Once again Moriarty had sounded more like a medical man than a lover, cold and distant. “Are you certain  _you_ are willing?” Moran couldn’t help but ask, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

“Very much so.” He smiled, thinly. “Come come, Colonel, you must know by now that I rarely give my emotions free reign, for everyone to see.”

“Everyone?” Moran threw a mocking look around the room. “We are in your bedroom, Professor. Unless you have someone hiding in your wardrobe – a possibility which, I admit, isn’t quite as outlandish for you as it would be for anyone else – there is no one here but you and me.”

“I am aware of that, yes,” Moriarty said drily. “Now, your clothing?”

Moran sneered at him, but he started undressing all the same. Besides, Moriarty’s continuing cold, appraising eye did not dissuade his interest – quite the contrary, in fact.

Moriarty had noticed, naturally. “You enjoy being watched?” he asked.

“Not generally, no.” He pulled his shirt over his head and folded it neatly. “You seem to be the exception.”

Moriarty didn’t reply. He was staring rather intently at Moran’s chest.

Moran looked down at himself. Nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the scarring, of course.

“Tiger?” Moriarty asked, miming a claw over his own shoulder, mimicking the four white lines on Moran’s chest.

“Yes. Ferocious beast, but…” He grinned, looking up from his boots. “No match for me, obviously. I still have her skin.”

“Yes, I heard of your skills as a hunter. They seemed quite… how did you put it? _Outlandish_.”

“No exaggerations there, I can assure you.” Moran straightened up and pulled his trousers and underwear down. He put them neatly aside with the rest of his clothes and stood up straight again – in more ways than one.

Moriarty slowly looked him up and down. When he finally reached Moran’s face, he said, coolly, “You’ll do.”

Moran took a step forward but Moriarty held up a hand. “No, stay there.”

“Professor- ” Moran started, feeling his frustration mount.

“Patience, Colonel. Surely a skilled hunter such as yourself knows the value of that virtue?”

“I generally do not think of hunting in  _this_ context, sir.”

“Don’t you? I do.” He stepped forward suddenly, and Moran understood what he meant. Moriarty moved rather like a predator, a snake suddenly striking after a long time of quiet watchful waiting. And Moran, in response, felt a sudden urge to draw back, protect himself. He ignored it.

Moriarty put his hand on Moran’s nape and drew him down.

It was as if the simple touch of Moriarty’s lips against his finally set loose months’ worth of suppressed desire. He clawed at Moriarty’s shoulder, pushed him back to the bed, kissing him hungrily. Moriarty – he went along with it, but Moran could feel his mouth turning up in a smile, as if he were laughing at him. Not that he much cared, at this point. All he needed now was contact, that warm solid feeling of having someone against him, touching him.

They hit the bed. Moriarty neatly dodged his grasping hands and gave him a push, landing him on his back on Moriarty’s sheets. He pushed up unto his elbows.

Moriarty was studying him, his eyes starting at his feet and slowly travelling upwards. Moran let him look. Moriarty was right, he  _did_ know the value of patience, and in this case he was more than happy to wait, now the possibility of attaining what he wanted was certain. Or as certain as anything ever got with Moriarty, at least.

“Turn around, on all fours,” Moriarty said, at last.

Moran blinked in surprise. “I usually do – ”

“I don’t particularly care what you do or do not do  _usually_ , Moran. Turn around.”

He rolled onto his side and up, onto his knees and hands, feeling inordinately like a bitch about to be mounted. He might have dabbled in this a few times, when he was younger, but these days he was without exception the – the  _active_ partner.

Once again it made him feel off-kilter, apprehensive, like stepping into a gunfight unarmed. Perhaps Moriarty enjoyed seeing him ill at ease and vulnerable. It would certainly be true to character.

Moriarty opened a drawer and pulled a small bottle out. A moment later he could smell the tell-tale scent of oil. The bed dipped – Moriarty joining him, at last.

Moran tensed up in anticipation. It might have been a long time ago but he still remembered the pain of it, the discomfort. But if this was the only way to get Moriarty into bed, so be it.

He was, therefore, surprised when the first touch of Moriarty’s hand was as gentle as a nurse tending to an infant. Nothing but a light stroke of his index finger, spreading the slippery oil, not even entering him.

He looked over his shoulder.

“I imagine your previous experience with this hasn’t been entirely pleasurable?” Moriarty asked, conversationally. As if they were back in his office, Moriarty asking him about his military experience, his skill with a rifle.

“It has been a long time,” Moran said. He stared, as if hypnotised, at Moriarty’s hand, even though the position made his neck ache. “But no, not generally.”

Moriarty smiled, his fingers trailing small circles, still not entering. “There is time and place for pain, as I’m sure we’ll find out together soon enough.” He looked up and briefly met Moran’s eyes, with a piercing, almost painful look. Moran swallowed. “But there is something to be said for this, as well.”

He finally pressed inside, one finger, as careful as when he was mixing his dangerous chemicals in his laboratory. There was not a sliver of pain about it.

Maybe it was time to reconsider his preferences.

“Although there is, of course, a certain tortuous aspect to moving at a slower pace.” Moriarty continued, slowly pressing his finger in deeper. “Denying an urgent need, postponing the release… I’m sure you understand.”

“I’m starting to,” Moran growled. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in urging you to go quicker?”

“None whatsoever,” Moriarty said. He pulled his finger briefly out, and then pushed in again, this time with two.

Moran gritted his teeth. Still no pain, nothing beyond a certain feeling of being stretched. It certainly wasn’t unpleasant, quite the opposite.

“How do you know all this?” he asked, trying to distract himself. “I find it hard to imagine you as a regular client in any molly house.”

“The same way I know everything else. Through study, observation, making the occasional deductive leap. Hypotheses and testing them.”

“All very – very  _scientific_ , Professor.”

The feeling of pressure, of being stretched open, increased. He looked over his shoulder to see three of Moriarty’s long, nimble fingers pressing slowly, lewdly, inside of him.

He quickly looked back at the pillows, his breathing speeding up.

“Any feeling of pain?” Moriarty asked. He did sound exactly as when he was conducting one of his experiments – observation and hypotheses indeed. Would he stay like that all throughout? Would he retain that detached calm even when he finally entered Moran, or at the final moment of release?

“Moran,” Moriarty said again. “Pain?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Hm, as I suspected. As in so many things, rushing the job only leads to unpleasantness and sloppy finishing, while taking one’s time has nothing but benefits. I think you are ready now, don’t you?”

“I  _think_ , Professor,” Moran said between gritted teeth, “that I was ready the moment I lied down on your bed. So _, if you_   _please_ …”

Moriarty chuckled and pulled his hand back. “Very well. Brace yourself, it might make it easier.”

Moran took hold of the top of the headboard. The bed shifted again, as Moriarty sat up, and then he could feel the head of Moriarty’s cock pressing against him. Moran hissed in breath through his teeth, briefly tensing up again before forcing himself to relax.

“Of course, slowness and care aren’t always the best possible choice,” Moriarty said, but before Moran had a chance to decode those words Moriarty took his hips and thrust forwards, going in deep in one hard, smooth movement.

Moran rocked forwards, gasping for air his lungs suddenly seemed to lack. There was pain, now, but barely there, wiped away by the overwhelming burning feeling of being _filled_.

Moriarty’s hand came up to his nape, holding him down. “Satisfied now, Moran?” and finally, for the first time that night, Moriarty’s voice held something else but that inevitable calm. He sounded satisfied, approving. In another person he’d might have called it  _teasing_.

“Not entirely,” he managed. “But mostly, yes.”

Moriarty’s hand raked down his back, his nails leaving painful trails behind. “Well, let’s see if we can give you complete satisfaction.”

His hand went back to Moran’s hip and he pulled back, thrust back in, falling into a rhythm as old and primal as blood, bone. Moran held on to the headboard, rocking with every thrust, his cock fully hard and begging for touch.

This was nothing like the boys at the molly house, or the unskilled fumblings in Cambridge. The closest it came was to the brief  _arrangement_  he’d had with his second lieutenant a few years ago, but still, compared to this…

Moriarty’s arm came down, around his chest, and he was abruptly pulled up. Moriarty’s mouth pressed against his shoulder, his neck, biting lightly. His thrusts didn’t slow. Moran let his head fall back against Moriarty’s shoulder, eyes closed. Revelling in it.

Moriarty’s hand stroked down over his stomach, edging down tantalisingly. Moran tried to angle his hips, leaning into the touch, but Moriarty made sure he didn’t touch.

“Like I said,” Moriarty whispered. No more calm now; he sounded hoarse and eager,  _hungry_. “There’s torture in being forced to wait.”

“ _Please_ ,” Moran gasped, a word that didn’t come easily to him.

“No.”

Moriarty pushed him back down, one hand resting between his shoulder blades. His thrusts grew quicker, his breathing irregular, those universal little signs telling him a man was close to finishing. While Moran still wasn’t permitted release.

Moran closed his eyes, shoulders trembling with the effort of holding himself up, pushing against the pressure of Moriarty’s hand on his back.

A grunt. A shudder. A strange, wet feeling inside of him, and all movement stopped. Nothing but Moriarty’s heavy breathing, the warmth wherever he was pressed close against Moran.

A moment later he pulled out. Moran stayed on all fours, waiting. This wasn’t over yet, after all. Not even Moriarty would be so cruel as to send him away from his bed unsatisfied.

“Lie down, on your back,” Moriarty ordered. He sounded a little breathless, something Moran relished. He’d wager there were few people in the world who were allowed to see the great James Moriarty in a state like this.

Moran rolled onto his back, hands behind his head, hoping to affect a pose of amusement and knowing patience rather than one of desperation.

Moriarty sat down next to him, his legs folded beneath him. He still was wearing his shirt, his trousers. He’d seen the Professor in that state of clothing before, when he was conducting the messier, more physical kind of experiment, but it still looked unusual. Especially combined with the slight flush on his cheeks.

“I believe you mentioned  _complete satisfaction_?” Moran said lazily, hiding his thoughts.

“I did.” He carefully touched Moran’s throat, traced a line down his chest. He shivered in response. “I should probably have mentioned that I do not intend this to be a one-time affair, Moran.”

“I had surmised as much, yes.” He followed the slow trail of Moriarty’s finger, entranced.

“I will need your complete discretion.”

“Naturally.”

“I might call you to my bed at any time I please and I will expect you to be ready.”

He nodded. Moriarty’s hand had at last reached his cock, fingers slowly curling around him. It felt like pure bliss.

“You will do exactly as I tell you to.”

Moriarty’s skilled fingers slowly stroked up. Moran’s grabbed hold of his forearm, knuckles going white.

“And you will not seek pleasure outside of my bedroom.”

He looked up sharply. Surely he did not mean…

Moriarty’s grip tightened, growing painful. Moran hissed in response.

“Not without my permission, at the very least,” Moriarty added.

Which seemed like a fairly reasonable request. He didn’t frequent houses of ill repute nearly as much as he used to, these days, and with Moriarty as a bedfellow he might just do without them altogether.

He gave a curt nod in agreement.

“Excellent,” Moriarty said, smiling, and with the next slow slide of his hand Moran seized with pleasure, finished, spilling all over Moriarty’s bony fingers.

Moriarty pulled his hand back and wiped his fingers with his handkerchief. Moran watched him, full of post-coital peace.

“You can stay here tonight,” Moriarty informed him.

He nodded, closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off into sleep.

***

He was woken up by a knock on the door.

He rolled onto his side. The staff at his club knew better than to wake him. Perhaps they had a new employee, someone who had not yet learned the peculiarities of the club’s clients. Although…

Moran blinked. This was not his bed, nor his bedroom.

“Enter,” someone said. Moriarty. He was in Moriarty’s bed, because he…

Dear god, had he really?

He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, blinking in confusion.

Mrs Halifax had come in, somehow balancing two trays. “I took the liberty of preparing breakfast for the Colonel as well, Professor,” she said, unperturbed by Moran’s presence in the room, or both their general states of undress, or even the disturbed sheets and the general suggestion that somewhere before now sexual acts had taken place in this room.

“Excellent. Put it here, please.” Moriarty gestured at a small table at the end of the bed. Mrs Halifax deposited her precious load and left the room again, without one look for Moran.

“Excellent woman,” Moriarty mused. “The very definition of adaptable. I have yet to see someone else who combines that amount of respectability with the occasional necessary bit of ruthless violence in such an impeccable manner. Here.” Moriarty handed him his tray.

He stared down at it. Kedgeree and strong black coffee, just the way he liked it.

“You look, Colonel,” Moriarty said, sounding quite mocking, “rather like one of those men at a spiritualist meeting, having just been told he is now communicating with his long-dead grandfather. The same air of general confusion and disbelief. Are you feeling quite alright?”

“Still expecting to wake up any time soon, truth to be told,” he said. “I have had dreams like these before; incredibly vivid and lifelike which inevitably turn false.”

“I can assure you this is reality,” Moriarty said, drily. “Now eat up, I have work for you. Although…” he trailed off and gave Moran a measuring look. “I think we have just enough time for a little sport, first.”

“Well, let me finish my breakfast first, then,” Moran said. “Because I have a suspicion, Professor, that your preferred kind of  _sport_ requires a certain amount of stamina and vigour.”

“Your suspicions are correct, Colonel,” Moriarty informed him. “You’re not an entire fool, it seems.”

“You pay me six-thousand a year not to be, sir. Now,” he took his cup of coffee and raised it in a toast. “To… What shall we toast to?”

“Our future together,” Moriarty said, raising his cup as well. “May it be fruitful and mutually satisfying.”

And together they drank.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Molly house** : Molly houses are historical sort-of whorehouses for gay men during the 18th and 19th centuries. It’s a bit more complicated, though, there’s a whole culture attached to it.


End file.
